


the dawn before the rest

by yourinsomnia



Category: Warcraft (2016)
Genre: Khadgar is too pure for this world, Khadgar-centric, slightly AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-09 02:16:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8871745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourinsomnia/pseuds/yourinsomnia
Summary: Title is from Oscar Wilde's quote, "...his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Steel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steel/gifts).



***  
Unceasing, white fog obstructed his view. The heels of his feet sank into the ground thatwas more tar than earth. His chest was constricted, his lungs heavy as though filled with water, and when he tried to say something, a word, a scream—all that came out was a terrible gurgling sound. He had screamed and called for help the first time—but since then he’d learned there was no one except a raven that bore its eyes into him as it flew in circles above him, and nothing except the fog. 

How many times had he been here? Has it been twenty, hundred? He’d lost count.

It was futile to try to escape. There was no getting out. Unless he walked the path.

And he did, following the raven.

***  
Khadgar heard the rustle of robes before he saw Alonda.

“You look terrible,” she said by way of greeting, taking a seat across from Khadgar at the dining table that was now all but deserted. The day was creeping close to afternoon—not at all a respectable time to be coming down to the dining hall for breakfast. Alonda had earned herself the reputation of being the nightowl of the Violet Citadel, and was often one of the last magus-in-training seen at breakfast. Khadgar was not a straggler himself usually, but it had just been that kind of a night.

Nights even, if he was being entirely honest.

“Who would look good surviving on this swill,” he said, mindlessly spooning his porridge. The Council imposed plain porridge and tea on them every breakfast, all in the name of asceticism—“simple food for keener magical senses.”

“Uh huh,” was Alona’s response as she dug into her own bowl of steaming porridge with an enthusiasm that Khadgar found almost disheartening. “So was it the same nightmare again?” she asked, her voice hushed as to not be heard in the relative quiet of the hall.

Evading Alonda’s concerns had always been a futile quest, and Khadgar had very little energy for it today. “Yes. The fog. The raven. The thicket. It was all there again. Only it was worse last night,” he paused a moment. “Or better, I’m not sure.”

Alonda regarded Khadgar, the porridge forgotten instantly. “What happened? Did you make it through the thicket?”

“I can’t…” Khdagar shook his head. “I can’t talk about it. Not quite yet. I still don’t understand it.”

He knew exactly what Alonda was going to say before she said it. Not because he was practicing telepathy, but because it was Alonda and in their six years of friendship he had grown to anticipate her responses with remarkable clarity. 

“Khadgar, it would be better...if you talked to someone. The Council...They can help you, you know.”

He didn’t know. Not really. But if there was anything that he despised more than porridge it was getting into ideological arguments with Alonda about the Kirin Tor and the way the Magus Senate operated.

Perhaps he would try to evade, after all. Khadgar glanced at the clock above the mantelpiece, frowned, and said, “Oh my, look at the time. I’d better be off.”

“Fine, escape, but please do come talk to me if you find out something. I’ve been looking into your problem myself. Doing a bit of research.”

“But what of the trolls?" 

“What of them? They are fine," she said, taking a swig from the cup of tea. “I’ve made some significant progress. I found this ancient Dwarven text—took ages to translate, too—it describes a race that could very well be the fifth troll species. I just need another cross-reference—”

“Well,” Khadgar interrupted, “I would love to stick around and hear more, but you know, places to be and all that.”

“You asked! Also, you’re awful. I don’t wish to be friends with you any longer,” she said.

Khadgar smiled, caught in a moment, as the harsh afternoon sun shone through the windows and fell on her face, making her skin radiate, and her pitch black hair, tied back in a messy bun, look almost blue—the dark blue of raven feathers.

 

***

The path and the raven always led him to the thicket. Thorny, sinewy branches that extended in all directions. The thicket looked impenetrable, its limbs so tightly entwined that it seemed a critter wouldn’t be able to pass, let alone a human. And yet, that's where the path led, and the raven, its eyes never leaving him, perched atop the branches, croaking—the only sound in the expanse of nothingness echoing through the fog he'd left behind. 

When Khdagar stepped into the thicket, the thorns dug into his skin and slashed through his robes. Dark blood spilled on tar ground. He didn’t feel pain, only heaviness, twisting him from the inside out, pulling him into the heart of the thicket. He had walked and walked, ripping out the path in front of him, until he was soaked in blood. Behind him, the same dead, white fog. The branches he’d clawed through fell to the ground in ashes, like ancient bones scattering over the earth.

***

His courrier was running late, which wouldn’t have posed a problem if Khadgar hadn’t gotten to the tavern two hours early himself. In that time, he had finished a book on unstable magical energies, a completely droll read like almost everything that was assigned to him by his instructor Guzbah, and was beginning to grow increasingly tired of nursing a cup of Thunderbrew Ale that he had little desire to actually finish.

The barmaid had passed him over once again, sighed at his still-mostly full cup, and went away.

Khadgar’s simple brown robe, a slight glamor on his facial features, and the darkest, furthest corner of the room afforded him some anonymity and little attention from the other patrons. Still, he couldn’t risk getting discovered by anyone from the Kirin Tor. Magus-in-training were rarely seen at such a place, considering their young age, and it would have been dreadfully tiresome to hear a lecture from Guzbah or some of the other elder Mages if they’d found out what kind of establishments the Guardian Novitiate frequented, let alone why he did.

Of course, it was mostly to get away from the Citadel, but on days like today it was also to procure some smuggled goods. Khadgar suspected that wouldn’t go over well with the Kirin Tor either.

Eventually Parrus strolled into the tavern. For his part, the other man recognized Khadgar instantly through the glamor. His slim dark figure moved soundlessly around occupied tables. And just as soundlessly, he’d taken a seat across from Khadgar.

“Well, hello,” Khagar said, trying to infuse his voice with as much annoyance at Parrus’ late arrival as he could manage considering his current inconspicuous persona.

Parrus paid him no mind, and dropped a small knapsack he was carrying under the table between them. That was their usual ritual—Khadgar focused his energy and floated the contents of the bag into his own.

“I couldn’t get the information that you asked for.”

“Nothing?” Khadgar inquired.

“No. Just hearsay, here and there.”

“What kind of hearsay?”

Parrus’ expressionless eyes focused on Khadgar, his mouth twitching into something that wasn’t entirely smirk or smile. “Nothing that you haven’t heard already. He’s been locked up in his castle for years. Completely bonkers.”

Yes, yes, Khadgar knew this about Medivh. Everyone did. But he needed more-—he needed to know everything about Medivh. His childhood, his initiation as the Guardian and his time with the Kirin Tor. Mostly importantly, Khadgar needed to know the real reason for Medivh’s current isolation. Even as the Guardian Novitiate, Khadgar knew next nothing of the current living Guardian. All of the knowledge about Medivh had been made secret, by what forces or deities Khadgar could not tell. The only piece of the puzzle he’d managed to uncover—not in Citadel’s library, of course not, that place was as useful for any proper research as was searching for the sun in the night sky, but in one of the ancient historical texts that Parrus had procured for him—was a mention of Medivh’s mother Aegwynn, who served as Guardian herself for five hundred years. He had found more on Aegwynn, but her stories were steeped so deep in legend, it was hard to tell what was real and what wasn’t. Still, it was a start.

The fact that even Parrus, who usually managed to acquire all manner of forbidden items and books, and any information that Khadgar had requested, couldn’t come back to him with anything on Medivh was another dead end.

“I won’t be passing through Dalaran for another six months. Don’t look for me in the meantime,” Parrus said and had gotten up to leave.

“It was good seeing you as well,” Khadgar muttered to Parrus’ back, trailing after him out of the tavern.

***

Beyond the thicket was the crypt made of icy glass. He walked down the steps, the chill stealing his breath away. The steps led him to a small room; in the middle a sarcophagus made of glass, and all around him reflections. He saw his own face staring back at him, his tired eyes bloodshot, his robes bloody.

Something flashed in one of the reflections, and he stepped closer. He looked and looked, and there was nothing - until a glint, and then a movement. An old man appeared on the other side. He was all skin and bones; his skin yellow, taut and wrinkled; his eyes an empty casket, which stared right at him.

“Who are you?” the old man asked in a hoarse voice, the screeching of rusty wheels on a broken road.

He said nothing and watched the old man.

“Who are you?” the old man repeated, louder now, and closer, too, his face almost pressed up against the glass on the other side. 

“Khadgar,” he replied, surprised to find his own voice. 

“Khadgar who?” 

“Khadgar. Of Dalaran. Of the Kirin Tor. The Guardian Novitiate.”

“The Guardian Novitiate, you say?” the old man asked, and laughed, his head tilted back at an unnatural angle, his mouth open so wide, Khadgar could see all his rotting teeth. He laughed and laughed, and the sound of it reverberated through the glass, through Khadgar’s skull; it was physical, jagged pain that found its way through Khadgar’s ears and stayed lodged in his head. He covered his ears, tried to shut it out. He stepped away from the glass and then he ran up the crypt’s stairs, but when he’d reached the top, there was nothing but white fog outside, and the manic laugh in the cold silence.

***

When the dream finally let him go, Khadgar rose up in his bed, breathing in deeply, trying to get the air back into his lungs. He threw off the covers, and sat on the edge of the bed. His hands automatically reached to cover his ears. His breathing and heartbeat weren’t slowing down; he needed to go outside

He made it as far as the gryphon landing before he noticed that he’d left his outer robe in his quarters. The night air felt good at first, but considering the heights at which Dalaran floated, it was not meant to last. Khadgar shivered and looked up at the night sky.

The old man’s laugh still rang in his head—and there was something else. Amongst the million things that were odd by these recurring dreams, this man had disturbed him the most. And his eyes, and face too--something about it seemed painfully familiar. Khadgar couldn’t deny it—he looked like him, just aged and broken.

Khadgar looked to the library’s tower, still lit up even this late at night. He’d wondered if Alonda was still there, and let his thoughts wander to her.

***

“Tell me about Medivh,” Khadgar demanded of Quzbah. 

They were in the middle of a study session that had just devolved into an argument session—mostly propelled by Khadgar’s never-ending insistence to learn schools of magic that were restricted by the Kirin Tor.

The question about Medivh—well, it was mostly a diversion in a conversation about teleportation spells and why the Kirin Tor had considered them wildly dangerous.

Quzbah’s deep-seated eyes watched Khadgar with weariness. He was one of the younger instructors in charge of the trainees, but the long hours of study in poorly-lit places, and intense magical work had taken its toll on him. “We’re finished here. Reconvene tomorrow at six,” he said and closed the tome in front of him with a force that was rather excessive. 

“Quzbah,” Khadgar insisted, “Don’t you find it strange, that the Guardian Novitiate doesn’t get instruction from the current Guardian?”

“What’s strange about it? The Kirin Tor are more than capable of instructing you and preparing you for the role of the Guardian of Azeroth. If only you would pay attention, that is.”

“How long has it been since Medivh visited Dalaran? Hasn’t it been years? Are the rumors true, that he holds the Kirin Tor in low regard?” Khadgar went on, purposefully oblivious to Quzbah’s increasingly enraged expression. 

“Insolent boy! The Kirin Tor put up with you long enough because you’re the Guardian Novitiate. But you go too far this time. Insulting the honorable association of the Magus Senate—” Quzbah spit out, and would have continued in the same manner if Khadgar hadn’t gotten up abruptly.

“There’s a reason why Medivh does not take part in Kirin Tor’s affairs,” Khadgar said. “If you don’t tell me the reason, then I’ll find out on my own.” 

***

Khadgar was in the same crypt again. This time, however, the cover of the sarcophagus was thrown off, and the old man from the reflection rose up from the inside to greet Khadgar. 

Now it was Khadgar’s turn to question. “Who are you?”

The old man’s eyes danced with green fire. “I am the Guardian.” His voice was thunder that cracked the ice open. All around them the walls fell apart, and green skies opened up, bleeding into black earth. Far off in the distance was the churning, grey mass of the sea. 

“I am the Guardian. Do you understand, boy?” The old man roared, but he was no longer just an old man—he was transforming. 

Green fire spit from his eyes, from his mouth; his skin turned red, and his head changed into shape of some creature that Khadgar had never seen before. Long ears, horn, tentacle-like appendages. He roared and roared, his chest expanding, growing taller, until he was towering over Khadgar. And then bodies started falling around them like oversized drops of rain. All manner of creatures and races that Khadgar could not imagine existed, but humans too—young and old, they fell in a green storm and burned with green fire. The sky weeped in green blood. 

Only Khadgar was untouched as he stood and watched. 

 

***

Khadgar awoke in the infirmary. In the dim candle light he could see Alonda by his side, watching him. 

“Are you alright?” She edged closer to him, and rested her hand on his forehead. 

He had a very slight understanding of how he’d gotten here. He was walking down the stairs from Guzbah’s study when pain shot through him, and his vision swam — the blackness overtaking him in seconds. 

And then the nightmare — it had wormed its way into his waking hours. 

The creature that he saw the old man transform into...Whatever that creature was, it was not him. It could not be. It would not come to pass.

“Alonda.” His voice, too quiet, even to his own ears. “I saw...I saw myself. No, no…” Panic rose up in him like bile. He made an attempt to get up but Alonda wrapped him in a hug, held him in place on the bed with gentle restraint. “What are you going on about, Khadgar? Where are you going?”

Where was he going?

Did it matter?

He only knew he had to leave.

“Khadgar, you’re not well. You need rest.” Alonda’s voice stern, pleading. 

“You don’t understand,” Khadgar said, closing his eyes for a moment so as to not look at her. “I can’t be the next Guardian.”

Alonda was silent for a moment, then moved away from the bed and had went to stand by the window. A coarse laugh, and then, “You can’t mean that.” 

“Oh, I really do,” he said and moved to get up again. He felt only slightly unsteady on his feet. His body felt light, like it weighed nothing at all; his head cloudy from the nightmare and the fall, but determination grounded him. Magical energy welled up inside him, strong and steady, pulsating at his fingertips. 

Alonda’s eyes darkened at him. “Khadgar, what did you see in your dreams?”

What could he say? I saw myself, but much older, with eyes like hellfire, and I had set the world alight in green death.

He came up to her, took her hand into his. Her skin was so white, even in the yellow light. Her ethereal, black hair was loose now, framing her soft features. He could not do this before, but now he felt courage heavy like lead in his blood. He brought her hands close and kissed them. “I’m sorry, Alonda.” He didn’t know whether she understood what he apologized for, and he had no right to hope that she would.

He let got of her hands and turned away. Her voice chased after him still. “Khadgar, Azeroth needs you. Azeroth needs a Guardian.”

_Azeroth has one, for now, and that should be enough._

There was so much more he could say to her, but he didn’t. His body and mind were already focused on channeling the energy for a teleportation spell—something that he’d been practicing in secret for many years. He'd never attempted it successfully prior, but he was sure he could do it now. 

And it would take him far, far away from Dalaran.

**Author's Note:**

> Dear Steel,
> 
> Alonda and Quzbah are both characters mentioned in Jeff Grubb's novel The Last Guardian, though the story follows the lore of the movie more than the novel. 
> 
> It was a pleasure writing this for you and delving more into Khadgar's story. Hope you enjoyed and I wish you the merriest of holidays \o/.


End file.
